The Spellsinger Adventures Volume One: Spellsinger, the Hour of the Gate, and the Day of the Dissonance

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Oh, now I don’t know that I would go that far,” muttered Clothahump. Jon-Tom looked at him sharply.

  “Now don’t get me wrong, mate,” the otter said to Jon-Tom. “I like you, and I like the two dear ladies, even if they are a bit standoffish, and even old Pog ’ere can be good company when ’e wants to.” The bat looked down from his branch and snorted, then returned to preening himself.

  “It’s just that I’m not lookin’ forward t’ the prospect o’ possible dismemberment. But then, I’ve said all this before, ’aven’t I.” He smiled beatifically. “’Tis the threat that keeps me taggin’ along. I know better than t’ try and run off.”

  “It is not that we believed you had actually done that. Which is to say, we were not entirely certain that …”

  “Stow it, guv’nor. I don’t pay it no mind.” He set the fillets on the fire, moved to a mossy log, and pulled off one boot. Furry toes wiggled as he turned the boot upside down and tapped the heel with a paw. Several small pebbles tumbled out.

  “Some bloody deep muck I ’ad t’ slop through t’ run that set down. ’Twas worth it, I think. They’re young enough t’ be sweet and old enough t’ be meaty. Truth t’ tell, I was gettin’ tired o’ nuts and berries and jerky.” He shoved his foot back into the boot.

  “Come on, now. Surely none o’ you seriously thought I’d taken the long hike? Let’s get t’ some serious business, right? Breakfast!” He ambled toward the fire. “I may be ignorant, foul-mouthed, lecherous, and disreputable,” he reached for the proximate curves of Talea’s derrière and she jumped out of the way, “but there be one thing I am that’s good. I’m the best camp cook this side o’ the Muddletup Moors.” He winked at Jon-Tom.

  “Comes from ’avin’ t’ eat on the run all your life.”

  There was no more talk of desertion. The lizards looked rather more ghastly than the average hunk of cooked meat. Flor bit into her section with obvious gusto, so Jon-Tom could hardly show queasiness. Meat was meat, after all, and he’d eaten plenty of reptile in the past weeks. It was just that they’d been such cute little blue things.

  “Muy bueno,” Flor told Mudge, licking her fingers. “Maybe one of these days I’ll have a chance to make you my quesadillas.”

  Mudge was repacking his gear. “Maybe one o’ these days I’ll ’ave a chance to sample some quintera.”

  “No, no. ‘Quesadilla.’ Quintera is my …” She gaped, and then to Jon-Tom’s considerable surprise, she blushed. The flush was very becoming on her dark skin. He wanted to say something but somehow the idea of admonishing an otter about a ribald remark upset him. He simply could not visualize the furry joker as a rival. It was inhuman… .

  They shouldered their packs and started across the glade. Jon-Tom chatted with Mudge and Clothahump while Flor engaged the gruff but willing Pog in conversation. She was curious about the functions of a famulus, and he readily supplied her with a long list of the mostly unpleasant activities he was regularly required to perform. He spoke softly, out of the wizard’s hearing.

  Water occasionally lapped at their boots. The night’s rain had littered the glade with little pools. They avoided the largest without anyone noticing that several of the depressions were identical in outline: the shape of hooves had been melted into the rock.

  Jon-Tom was not prepared for his first sight of the river. The Tailaroam was anything but the modest stream he’d expected.

  It was broad and wild, with an occasional flash of racing white water showing where the current ran from east to west. He had no way of knowing its depth, but it seemed substantial enough to support a very large vessel indeed. It reminded him of pictures he’d seen of the Ohio in colonial times. Not that he expected to see anything as technologically advanced as a steamship or sternwheeler.

  Possibly it was the contrast that made the river seem so big. This was the first time he’d seen anything larger than a rivulet or creek, and the Tailaroam was enormous in comparison. Willow and cypress clustered thickly along the banks. Here and there, scattered stands of birch thrust thin skeletal fingers toward a cloud-flecked sky.

  They turned eastward and moved steadily upstream. The dense undergrowth that hugged the river made progress slow. Tangled clumps of moonberry bushes often forced them to change direction, and brambles stuck to their capes and tried to work their way to the skin beneath.

  Eventually they found what Clothahump had been searching for: a flat peninsula of sand and gravel that jutted out into the water. Only a few bushes clung tenaciously to the poor soil. In high-water weather the little spit would be submerged. For now it formed a natural landing place and a good one, the wizard explained, from which to hail a passing ship.

  Day slid into day, however, without any sign of river travel.

  “Commerce is thin this time of year,” Clothahump told them apologetically. “There are more ships in the spring when the river is higher and the upper rapids more navigable. If we do not espy transport soon, we may be reduced to constructing our own.” He sounded irritated and perhaps a little peeved that Talea might have been right in suggesting they travel overland.

  The next two days offered only hopeful signs. Several boats passed them, but all were traveling downstream toward the Glittergeist Sea and distant Snarken.

  Jon-Tom used the time to practice his duar, working to master the difficult double-string arrangement. He was careful only to play soft music and not to sing any songs for fear of accidentally conjuring something distressing. Clouds of gneechees seemed to swarm about him at such times. He was learning to resist the constant temptation to spend all his time trying to catch one in his gaze.

  Once something like a foot-long glowworm crawled out of the shallows to dance and writhe near his feet. It did nothing else, and shot back into the water the instant he stopped playing.

  Flor was fascinated by the instrument. Despite Jon-Tom’s initial worries she insisted on trying it herself. She succeeded only in strumming a few basic chords, and went back to listening to him play.

  She was doing so one morning when a cry came from Talea.

  “A ship!” She stood on the end of the sandy point and gestured to the west.

  “How big?” Clothahump puffed his way over to stand next to her. Jon-Tom slipped the duar back across his chest, and he and Flor moved to stand behind them.

  “Can’t tell.” Talea squinted, shielded her eyes. The cloud cover now restricted the sunlight, but the glare from the surface of the river was still strong enough to water unwary eyes.

  Soon the vessel hove into full view. It was stocky and pointed at both ends. Two square-rigged sails were mounted on separate masts set fore and aft. There was a central cabin abovedeck and a narrow high poop from which a figure was steering the ship by means of an enormous oar.

  There were also groups of creatures moving from east to west along the sides of the ship. They shoved at long poles. Jon-Tom thought he could make out at least a couple of humans among the fur.

  “Looks like a cross between a miniature galleon and a keelboat,” he murmured thoughtfully. Wetting a finger, he tested the wind. It was blowing upstream. That would propel a sailboat against the current, and the ship could then down sail and take the current back downstream. Except on days such as today. The breeze was weak, and the keel poles had been brought into play to keep the vessel moving.

  “Are they flying a merchant’s pennant?” Clothahump fiddled with his spectacles. “One of these days I really must try and master that spell for myopia.”

  “Hard to tell,” Talea said. “They’re flying something.”

  “There seem to be an awful lot of people on deck.” Jon-Tom frowned. “Not all of them are pushing on those poles. Some of them seem to be running around the edge of the ship. Could they be exercising?”

  “Are you more than ’alf mad, mate? Anyone not workin’ ’is arse off would be below decks restin’ out o’ the way.”

  “They’re running nonetheless.” Jon-Tom frowned, trying to make some se
nse out of the apparently purposeless activity taking place on the ship.

  “Pog!”

  The bat was instantly at Clothahump’s side. “Yes, Master?” He hastily tossed away the lizard leg he’d been gnawing on.

  “Find out who they are, how far upstream they are traveling, and if they will take us as passengers.”

  “Yes, Master.” The bat soared out over the water, heading for the boat. Jon-Tom followed the weaving shape.

  Pog appeared to circle above the vessel. It was now almost opposite their little beach, though on the far side of the river. It wasn’t long before the famulus came speeding back.

  “Well?” Clothahump demanded as the bat fluttered to a resting stance on the ground.

  “Boss, I don’t think they’re much in the mood for talking business.” He raised a wing and showed them the shaft of the arrow protruding from it. Plucking it free, he threw it into the water and studied the wound. “Shit! Needle and thread time again.”

  “Are you certain they were shooting at you?” asked Flor.

  Pog made a face, which on a bat can be unbearably gruesome. “Yes, I’m sure dey were shooting at me!” he said sarcastically, mimicking her voice. “So sorry I couldn’t bring more proof back wid me, but unfortunately I managed ta dodge da other dozen or so belly-splitters dey shot at me.”

  He was fumbling in his backpack. Out came a large needle and a spool of some organic material that Jon-Tom knew could not be catgut. As the bat sewed, he spoke.

  “Dere seemed ta be some kind of riot or fight taking place on da deck. I just kinda circled overhead trying ta make some sense outta what was going on. Eventually I gave up and drifted over da poop deck. Tings were quieter dere and it’s where I’d expected ta find da captain. I tink one of ’em was, because he was better dressed dan any of da odders, but I couldn’t be sure, ya know?” He pushed the needle through the membrane without any sign that it pained him, stuck it around and in again, and pulled smoothly. The hole was beginning to close.

  “So I shout down at dis joker about us needing some transportation upstream. First ting he does is call me a black-winged, gargoyle-faced, insect-eating son-of-a-bitch.” He shrugged. “Da conversation went downhill from dere.”

  “I don’t understand such hostility,” murmured Clothahump, watching as their hoped-for transport began to slip out of sight eastward. No telling how long it might be before another going that way might pass them.

  “I just got da impression,” continued Pog, “that da captain and his crew were pretty fucking mad about someting and was in no mood to talk polite to anyone including dere own sweethearts, if dey got any, which I doubt. Why dey were so mad I don’t know, an’ I wasn’t about ta hang around an make no pincushion of my little bod ta find out.”

  “We might find out anyway.” Everyone looked toward Mudge. The otter was staring out across the river.

  “How do you mean?” asked Flor.

  “I believe they just threw somebody overboard.”

  Distant yelling and cursing came from the fading silhouette of the ship. Several splashes showed clearly now around the ship’s side. Even Jon-Tom saw them.

  “Somebody’s jumped in after the first,” said Talea. “I don’t think anyone’s been thrown, Mudge. There! The three that just jumped are being pulled back aboard. The first is swimming this way. Can you make out what it is?”

  “No, not yet, luv,” replied the otter, “but it’s definitely comin’ toward us.”

  They waited curiously while the ship slowly receded from sight, trailing a philologic wake of insult behind it.

  Several long minutes later they watched as a thoroughly drenched figure nearly as tall as Flor emerged dripping from waist-deep water and slogged toward them. It was a biped and clad in what when dry would be an immaculate silk dressing jacket lined with lace at cuffs and neck. A lace shirt protruded wetly from behind the open jacket, the latter a green brocade inlaid with gold thread. The white lace was now dim with river muck.

  Matching breeches blended into silk knee-length stockings which rose from enormous black shoes with gold buckles. The shoes, Jon-Tom estimated hastily, were comparable to a size twenty-two narrow for a human, which the damp arrival was not.

  It stopped, surveyed them with a jaundiced eye, and began wringing water from its sleeves. A monocle remained attached to the jacket by means of a long gold chain. After adjusting it in his right eye, the rabbit said with considerable dignity: “Surely you would not set upon a traveler in distress. I am the victim of antisocial activities.” He gestured tiredly upstream to where the boat had vanished.

  “I cast myself on your mercies, being too exhausted to fight or flee any farther.”

  “Take it easy,” said Talea. “You play square with us and we’ll be square with you.”

  “An estimable offer of association, beautiful lady.” Bending over, the rabbit shook his head and ran a clutching paw down each long white and pink ear. Water dripped from their ends.

  A few isolated patches of brown and gray spotted the otherwise white fur. Nose and ears were partly pink. From a hole in the back of his breeches protruded a white tail. At the moment it resembled a soggy lump of used cotton.

  Mudge had been assisting Pog in trimming and tying off the end of his stitchery. At first he’d paid the new arrival only cursory attention. Now he left the bat and moved to join his companions. As he did so he had a better view of the bedraggled but still unbowed refugee, and he let out an ear-splitting whistle.

  Expecting the worst, the rabbit flinched back, thinking he was now about to be attacked despite Talea’s announcement of assistance. But when he got his first look at the otter he let out a sharp whistle of his own. Mudge flung himself into the taller animal’s arms and the two spent several minutes apparently trying to beat each other to death.

  “Bugger me for a fag ferret!” Mudge was shouting gleefully. “Imagine seein’ you ’ere!” He turned, panting, to find his friends staring dumbfoundedly at him. “’Ere now, you chaps don’t know who this be, do you?” He whacked the rabbit on the back once more. “Introduce yourself, you vagrant winter coat!”

  The rabbit removed his monocle carefully and cleaned it with a dry sleeve. “I am Caspar di Lorca di l’Omollia di los Enansas Giterxos. However,” and he slipped the now sparkling eyepiece back in place, “you may all call me Caz.”

  He frowned as he examined his silk stockings and pants. “You must please excuse my dreadful appearance, but circumstances compelled that I exit hastily and by unexpected aquatic route from my most recent method of conveyance.”

  “Good riddance ta ’em,” snorted Pog, giving the horizon the finger.

  “Ah, the aerial disruption that facilitated my departure.” The rabbit watched as Pog tested his repaired wing. “It was because of your arrival that I was able to take leave so unbloodily, my airborne friend. Though I had little time for extraneous observation I saw the disgusting manner in which you were treated. It was rather like my own situation.”

  Clothahump had little time for individual tales of woe, no matter how nicely embroidered. “Talea said that we would treat you fairly, stranger. So we shall. I must tell you immediately that I am a wizard and that,” he pointed at Jon-Tom, “is an otherworldly wizard. With two wizards confronting you, you dare not lie. Now then, be good enough to tell us exactly why you jumped off that boat and why several members of its crew chased you into the water themselves?”

  “Surely the sad details of my unfortunate situation would only bore you, wizened sir.”

  “Try me.” Clothahump wagged a warning finger at the rabbit. “And remember what I said about telling the truth.”

  Caz looked around. He was cut off from the rest of the shore. Two humans of enormous size towered expectantly over him. If the turtle was no wizard, he was clearly convinced he was one.

  “Best do as ’Is Smartship says, mate,” Mudge told him. “’E’s a true wizard as ’e says. Besides,” the otter hunkered down on his haunches again
st a smooth section of sand, “I’m curious meself.”

  “There’s not much to relate.” Caz moved over to their smoking camp fire and continued to dry himself. “It was in the nature of a childish dispute over a game of chance.”

  “That sounds about right.” Talea grinned tightly. “They did throw you overboard, then?”

  The rabbit smiled slightly, turned, and shoved his tail end toward the fire. “Sadly, they would not have been content with that. I fear they had somewhat more lethal designs on my person. I was forced to fend them off until your friend with the wings momentarily distracted them, thus enabling me to enter the river intact. Though I first tried my best to reason with them.”

  “Yeah,” said Pog from nearby, “I saw how ya was reasoning wid dem.” He flapped experimentally, rose a few feet into the air. “Dey reasoned ya all over da ship!”

  “Ignorant peddlars of trash and quasi-pirates,” said Caz huffily. He studied his sodden lacework in evident distress. “I fear they have caused me to ruin my attire.”

  “What did they catch you cheating at,” asked Flor casually, “cards?”

  “I beg your pardon, vision of heaven, but that is an accusation so vile I cannot believe it fell from the lips of one so magnificent as to constitute a monument to every standard of beauty in the universe.”

  “It fell,” she told him.

  “I never cheat at cards. I have no need to, being something of an expert at their manipulation.”

  “Which means they caught you cheating at dice,” Talea said assuredly.

  “I fear so. My expertise with the bones does not match my skill at cards.”

  Talea laughed. “Meaning it’s a damnsight harder to hide a dice up your sleeve than a card. No wonder your shirt boasts so much lace.”

  The rabbit looked hurt, ran fingers through the fur on his forehead and then up one ear. “I had hoped to find refuge. Instead I am subject to constant ridicule.”

  “Truth, you mean.”